by Sue Grafton
The gate opened without a sound and Guy emerged, head down. He wore a dark-colored jacket, his fists shoved into his pockets as though he were cold. I leaned over and unlocked the door on the passenger side. He slid into the seat and then pulled the door shut without slamming it. He said, “Hey. Thanks for coming. I thought I’d go crazy without a friendly face. I’d have called you before, but they were watching me like a hawk.”
“No problem. I don’t know why you don’t break and run while you can.”
“I will. Tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that. I told you we’re supposed to have another meeting tonight just to talk about some things.”
“I thought you already talked.”
“Well, we did. We do. Every time I turn around, we have another chat.”
“That’s because you haven’t knuckled under yet,” I interjected.
“I guess that’s it.” He smiled in spite of himself. His tension was contagious and I could have sworn I smelled alcohol on his breath. I found myself with my arms crossed, one leg wound around the other as if to protect myself.
“I feel like we’re having an affair,” I said.
“Me, too. I used to meet girls out here in the old days when I was grounded. I’d slip over the wall and we’d screw in the backseat of a car. There was something about the danger set me on fire, and them, too. Made most of ‘em seem more interesting than they were.”
“I know this is none of my business, but have you been drinking?” I asked.
He turned and looked out the passenger window, shrugging. “I had a couple of drinks last night before all this shit came down. I don’t know what got into me. Don’t get me wrong ��� they were being nice at that point, but you could tell they were nervous and so was I. I’m ashamed to say this, but the alcohol did help. It mellowed us out and smoothed the conversation. Tonight was pretty much the same except everybody’s mood was different. Cocktail hour comes along and those guys really hit it.”
“Bennet and his martinis.”
“You bet. I figure that’s the only way I’ll get through. Peter wouldn’t be too happy with me, but I can’t help it. I can feel myself sliding back to my old ways.”
“What’d you think of Christie?”
“She was nice. I liked her. I was surprised at Bennett the weight he’d put on, but Jack seemed the same, still nuts about golf. And Donovan hasn’t changed.”
“What’ve they said to you so far?”
“Well, we talked some about the money, what else? I mean, the subject does come up. It’s like Donovan says, we can’t just ignore the issue. It’s like this big dark cloud hanging over us. I think we were all uncomfortable at first.”
“Have you resolved anything?”
“Well, no. Nothing much. At first, I think they were wondering, you know, generally, about my attitude. Now, anything I say and everybody jumps right on in. Tell you the truth, I’d forgotten what they’re like.”
“How do they seem to you?”
“Angry. Underneath it all, they’re pissed. I keep feeling the anger coming up inside me, too. It’s all I can do to keep a lid on it.”
“Why bother? Why not blow? The three of them certainly don’t hesitate.”
“I know, but if I flip my lid that’s only going to make matters worse. I’m trying to show ‘em I’ve changed and then I find myself feeling like I always did. Like I want to smash lamps, throw a chair through a window, get stoned or drunk or something bad like that.”
“That must be a trial.”
“I’ll say. I mean, literally. All I can think about is maybe this is some kind of test of my faith.”
“Oh, it is not,” I said. “It may be a test of your patience, but not your faith in God.”
He shook his head, pressing his hands down between his knees. “Let’s talk about something else. This is making me so tense I could fart.”
I laughed and changed the subject. For a while we chatted about inconsequential matters. Hunched there in the front seat, I was reminded of the occasional dates I had in high school where the only hope of privacy was remaining closed away in some kid’s car. On chilly evenings, the front windshield would fog up even if all we did was talk. On warm nights like this, we’d sit with the windows rolled down, radio tuned to some rock and roll station. It was Elvis or the Beatles, clumsy moves and sexual tension. I don’t even remember now what we talked about, those lads and I. Probably nothing. Probably we drank purloined beer; smoked dope, and thought about the incredible majesty of life.
“So what else’s going on? Aside from interminable meetings?” I asked. Like a rough place on a fingernail, I couldn’t resist going back to it. Apparently, Guy couldn’t resist it either because we fell right into the subject again.
This time he smiled and his tone seemed lighter. “It’s nice to see the house. I found some letters of my mother’s and I read those today. She’s the only one I ever missed. The rest of ‘em are a waste.”
“I don’t want to say I told you so, but I did predict this.”
“I know, I know. I thought we could just sit down like grownups and clean up some old business, but it doesn’t really happen like that. I mean, I keep wondering if there isn’t some kind of defect in me because everything I do just seems to come out wrong. Whatever I say seems off, you know? They look at me like I’m speaking in tongues and then I see them exchange these looks.”
“Oh, I know that one. Jack and Bennet are big on flicking looks back and forth.”
“That’s the easy part, but there’s worse.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t even know how to describe it. Something under the surface. Something slides right by and no one owns up to it, so then I start questioning my own thought process. Maybe I’m nuts and it’s not them after all.”
“Give me an example.”
“Like when I told ‘em I’d like to give something to the church? I honestly don’t want the money for me. I mean that. But Jubilee Evangelical saved my life and I want to give something back. To me, that doesn’t seem so wrong. Does it seem wrong to you?”
“No, not at all.”
“So, I say that and all of a sudden we’re in the middle of a power play. Bennet’s saying how it really doesn’t seem fair. You know how he talks with that slightly pompous air of his. ‘Our family’s never been religious. Dad worked for the good of us all, not for the benefit of some church he never heard of.’ He says it all in this completely rational tone and pretty soon I wonder if what I want to do is right after all. Maybe they have a point and my values are screwed up.”
“Sure they have a point. They want you to relinquish all claim so they can divide up your portion among themselves. They know perfectly well you’re entitled to a quarter of his estate. What you do with your share is none of their business.”
“But how come I end up the magnet for all that rage?”
“Guy, stop. Don’t do that. That’s the third time you’ve said that. Don’t get into self-blame. The gamesmanship has obviously been going on for years. That’s got to be why you left in the first place, to get away from that stuff. I swear they were behaving the same way before you showed up.”
“You think I should leave?”
“Well, of course I do! I’ve said it all along. You shouldn’t take their abuse. I think you should get the hell out while you have the chance.”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘abuse.’ “
“Because you’re used to it,” I said. “And don’t get sidetracked. Your brothers aren’t going to change. If anybody goes down for the count, it’s going to be you.”
“Maybe so,” he said. “I don’t know. I just feel like I have to stay since I’ve come this far. If I cut and run, we’re never going to find a way to work this through.”
“I can tell you’re not listening, but please, please, don’t agree to anything without talking to an attorney first.”
“Okay.”
“Promise me.”
“I will. I sw
ear. Well, I gotta go before somebody figures out I’ve escaped.”
“Guy, you’re not sixteen. You’re forty-three years old. Sit here if you want. You can stay out all night. Big whoop-dee-do. You’re an adult.”
He laughed. “I feel like I’m sixteen. And you’re cute.”
He leaned over quickly and brushed my cheek with his lips. I could feel the soft scratch of his whiskers against my face and I caught a whiff of his aftershave.
He said, “Bye-bye and thanks.” Before I could respond, he was out of the car, shoulders hunched up against the wind as he moved to the gate. He turned and waved and then he was swallowed up by the dark.
I never saw him again.
Chapter 13
*
Guy Malek was killed sometime Tuesday night, though I didn’t actually hear about it until Wednesday afternoon. I’d spent most of the day over at the courthouse sitting in on the trial of a man accused of embezzlement. I hadn’t been associated with the case ��� undercover cops had nailed him after seven months of hard work ��� but some years before, I’d done surveillance on him briefly at the request of his wife. She suspected he was cheating, but she wasn’t sure with whom. Turned out he was having an affair with her sister and she broke off relations with both. The man was dishonest to the core and I confess I found it entertaining to watch the legal system grind away at him. As often as I complain about the shortage of justice in this world, I find it infinitely satisfying when the process finally works as it should.
When I got back to the office after court adjourned, there was a message from Tasha waiting on my machine. I noticed, in passing, it was the Maleks’ number she’d left. I called, expecting to have Myrna pick up. Instead Tasha answered as if she’d been manning the phones. The minute I heard her, I realized how irritated I was that she’d gone out of town just as Guy arrived. If she’d been doing her job, she might have steered the family off their campaign of pressure and harassment.
Smart mouth that I am, I launched right in. “At long last,” I said, “it’s. about time you got back. All hell’s broken loose. Have you heard what’s going on? Well, obviously you have or you wouldn’t be there. Honestly, I adore Guy, but I can’t stand the rest of ‘em ���”
Tasha cut in, her voice flat. “Kinsey, that’s why I called. I cut my trip short and flew back from Utah this afternoon. Guy is dead.”
I was silent for a beat, trying to parse the sentence. I knew the subject… Guy… but the predicate… is dead… made no immediate sense. “You’re kidding. What happened? He can’t be dead. When I saw him on Monday he was fine.”
“He was murdered last night. Somebody smashed his skull with a blunt instrument. Christie found him in bed this morning when he didn’t come down for breakfast. The police took one look at the crime scene and got a warrant to search the premises. The house has been swarming with cops ever since. They haven’t found the murder weapon, but they suspect it’s here. They’re still combing the property.”
I kept getting hung up about two sentences back. “Somebody killed him in bed? While he slept?”
“It looks that way.”
“That’s disgusting. That’s awful. You can’t be serious.”
“I’m sorry to spring it on you, but there isn’t any nice way to put it. It is disgusting. It’s terrible. We’re all numb.”
“Has anybody been arrested?”
“Not at this point,” she said. “The family’s doing what they can to cooperate, but it doesn’t look good.”
“Tasha, I don’t believe this. I’m sick.”
“I am too. A colleague called me in Utah this morning after Donovan called him. I left everything behind and got myself on a plane.”
“Who do they suspect?”
“I have no idea. From what I’ve heard, Jack and Bennet were both out last night. Christie went to bed early and Donovan was watching TV upstairs in their sitting room. Myrna’s apartment is off the kitchen in back, but she says she was dead to the world and didn’t hear anything. She’s currently down at the station being interviewed. Christie came in a little while ago. She says the detectives are still talking to Donovan. Hang on.”
She put a hand across the mouthpiece and I heard her in a muffled discussion with someone in the background. She came back on the line, saying, “Great. I just talked to the homicide detective in charge of things here. He wants to keep the phone line open, but says if you want to come over he’ll tell the guys at the gate to let you in. I told him he ought to talk to you since you were the one who found Guy in the first place. I told him you might have something to contribute.”
“I doubt that, but who knows? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Do you need anything?”
“We’re fine for the moment. If no one’s at the gate, the code is 1-9-2-4. Just punch the number in at the call box beside the drive. See you shortly,” she said.
I grabbed my blazer and my handbag and went out to my car. The day had been mild. The high winds had moved on, taking with them the unseasonable heat. The light was waning and as soon as the sun set, the temperatures would drop. I was already chilled and I shrugged into my blazer before I slid beneath the wheel. Earlier in the day, I’d tried to use my wipes and washer fluid to clean the dust off my windshield and now it was streaked in a series of rising half moons. The hood of my car was covered with the same fine layer of dust, as pale as powder, and just as soft by the look of it. Even the seat upholstery had a gritty feel to it.
I put my hands together on the steering wheel and leaned my forehead against them. I had absolutely no feeling. My interior process was held in suspended animation, as if the Pause button had been pushed on some remote control. How was it possible Guy Malek was gone? For the past week, he’d been such a presence in my life. He’d been both lost and found. He’d occupied my thoughts, triggering reactions of sympathy and exasperation. Now I couldn’t quite remember his face only a flash here and there, the sound of his “Hey,” the whiskery brush of his chin on my cheek. He was already as insubstantial as a ghost, all form without content, a series of fragmented images without permanence.
What seemed so odd was that life just went on. I could see traffic passing along Cabana Boulevard. Two doors away, my neighbor raked brittle leaves into a pile on his lawn. If I turned on the car radio, there’d be intervals of music, public service announcements, commercials, and news broadcasts. Guy Malek might not even be mentioned on some stations. I’d lived my entire day without any intuition that Guy had been murdered, no tremor whatsoever in my subterranean landscape. So what’s life about? Are people not really dead until we’ve been irrefutably informed? It felt that way to me, as though Guy had, just this moment, been jettisoned out of this world and into the next.
I turned the key in the ignition. Every ordinary act seemed fraught with novelty. My perceptions had changed, and with them many of my assumptions about my personal safety. If Guy could be murdered, why not Henry, or me? I drove on automatic pilot while the street scenes slid past. Familiar neighborhoods looked odd and there was a moment when I couldn’t recall with any certainty what town I was in.
Approaching the Maleks’, I could see that traffic had increased. Cars filled with the curious cruised by the estate. Heads were turned almost comically in the same direction. There were cars parked on both sides of the road out front. Tires had chewed into the grass, plowing down bushes and crushing the stray saplings. As each new car appeared, the assembled crowd would turn, craning and peering to see if it was someone of note.
My car didn’t seem to generate a lot of interest at first. I guess nobody could believe the Maleks would drive a VW bug, especially one like mine, with its dust and assorted dings. It was only when I pulled up at the gate and gave my name to the guard that the reporters surged forward, trying to catch a glimpse of me. They seemed to be fresh troops. I didn’t recognize anyone from my earlier trip over.
Somehow the national media had already managed to get camera crews assembled, and I k
new that by seven the next morning, someone closely associated with the Maleks would be seen in a three-minute interview. I don’t know how the major networks make arrangements so quickly. It was one of the miracles of technology that less than twenty-four hours after Guy Malek’s death, somebody would do a close-up of a tearstained face, maybe Christie’s or Myrna’s or even Enid’s, the cook I’d yet to meet.
There was a black-and-white patrol car parked to one side, along with a vehicle from a private firm. I spotted the security guard pacing along the road, trying to keep the crowd from moving in too close. A uniformed police officer checked my name on his clipboard and waved me in. The gate swung inward by degrees and I idled the engine until the gap was sufficient to ease through. In that brief interval, there were strangers knocking on my car window, yelling questions in my direction. With their various handheld mikes extended, they might have been offering gimcracks for sale. I kept my eyes straight ahead. When I pulled forward through the gate, two male reporters continued to trot alongside me like cut-rate Secret Service agents. The security guard and the cop both converged, cutting off their progress. In my rearview mirror, I could see them begin to argue with the officer, probably reciting their moral, legal, and Constitutional rights.
My heart rate picked up as I eased up the driveway toward the house. I could see five or six uniformed officers prowling across the property, eyes on the ground as if hunting for four-leaved clovers. Light tended to fade rapidly at this hour of the day. Shadows were already collecting beneath the trees. Soon they’d need flashlights to continue the search. There was a second uniformed officer posted at the front door, his face impassive. He walked out to meet my car and I rolled down my window. I gave him my name and watched him scan both his list and my face. Apparently satisfied, he stepped away from the car. In the courtyard to my left, there were already numerous cars jammed into the cobblestone turnaround. “Any place in here all right?”